Date:         Wed, 10 Jun 1998 07:40:48 -0500
From: Phanny <corbett@AXA.SLU.EDU>
Subject:      [WRITERS] SUB: CONTEST: Wreckage

Wreckage

They used to call it shatter-proof,
that thick, mutated windshield glass
which broke into cloudy bits of wreckage
when something smashed through it.

Of course, it did shatter,
separating into myriad pieces,
yet somehow clinging together,
in a single, sagging sheet.

Maybe they sandwiched glue
between two distinct panes,
willing them to hold each other
against the ravages of nature.

I feel like shattering something,
smashing to atoms some surrogate
for all the frustration and anger
this week has hurled into my life.

In a mirror I see the three of us,
you and I broken and sagging,
as our daughter opens her arms wide,
vainly trying to keep us from shattering.

I catch myself wanting to poke the glass,
to restore that smooth, gleaming barrier
that was supposed to protect us from this,
that should keep the storms and bugs at bay.

But the cracks never really go away
and milky, faceted blemishes remain
make a mockery of everything
we swore we wanted for each other.